


hideously beautiful white ____

by KDblack



Category: Tsukihime
Genre: Eye Trauma, M/M, Multi, Other, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-07-25 19:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16204274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDblack/pseuds/KDblack
Summary: Somewhere in the twists of the kaleidoscope, Crimson Moon did a better job of backing himself up and Arcueid was already weakened when she encountered an assassin in Misaki. These minute alterations are enough to change Tohno Shiki's fate forever.





	1. here lies one whose name was writ in water

He wakes to the sound of retching. A voice murmuring denials. The sound of a thundering heartbeat. Copper fills the air, thick and heady, but his appetite fails to make itself known. The weight of sleep has yet to leave him. His eyes are open, yet he sees nothing.

 _Ah,_ he thinks finally, alien thoughts churning sluggishly through an unfamiliar brain. _I'm alive._

The voice has stopped. The air is still soaked with gore. The blood is beginning to cool. He unfolds his awareness slowly, cautiously. If Kischur is still present –

But he cannot feel any sign of the man who killed him. No sweat, no bone, no blood. Has he truly been forgotten so easily? An unfamiliar sensation laps at his thoughts. 

Grief? Sorrow? Melancholy. 

In ages past, he would have been unable to put a name to it. Perhaps he would not even have realized it was there. But as he unfolds himself from his slumber, he finds shards of newness waiting for him. Shreds of emotion. Pockets of understanding. Countless shining drops of memory. All dead, but he drinks up those hidden treasures greedily.

Not knowing has already led to his death once. He will not succumb so easily again.

Melancholy fades as he turns his focus to his body – or rather, the body that is now his. If he has already perished, he cannot be wearing the shape he forged eons ago, in the freezing depths of his kingdom. If that is the case...

He sinks deeper into his new flesh, hooks his tendrils into nook and cranny, and is relieved. Gratified. Triumphant. It would appear his back-up plan has borne fruit. The body he now inhabits sings to him, softly, frantically, the hum of a funeral march and a shrieking of raw power. The agony of a corrosive will – of being against the laws of this world – has gone. In its place, this body bleeds potential.

It is also bleeding literally. Odd. The body doesn't appear to be in poor condition. It's far from flawless, but the damage isn't significant enough for this sort of injury. This bears investigating.

Optical feedback informs him that his surroundings – his former host's room – are now thoroughly covered in a lovely red. It also shows him something his new memories imply is somewhat peculiar. A hand, slender and white, each nail delicately sharpened, each finger perfectly straight. 

A hand that lies at an odd angle, still clothed in a bone-white sleeve. 

A hand that has been sheared neatly off at the elbow.

_Ah. I've been dismembered. Or rather, 'she' has been dismembered._

He takes in the sight silently, noting every detail, before shifting his attention downward. An upper torso. A stomach. A pelvis. Further down rest a pair of legs, shrouded in purple fabric, thigh and calf neatly severed. Behind him, he locates an upper and lower arm. At the very edge of the bloodied floor is a foot, still contained in a soft covering. It seems modern shoes have grown quite comfortable.

There's no mistaking the situation for anything but what it is. His awakening is not the result of a slow, gradual infiltration, permeating every fibre of his host's being until even their thoughts are his. This was an accident – a brutal, bloody accident. An artificial True Ancestor was created, existed in a manner that qualified her to become his vessel, and was killed, leaving him in sole possession of a damaged body.

The question remains: what killed her?

Kischur? No, he decides. Even if the magus's dislike of him transferred to his creations as well, this is not Kischur's style. Too direct, and yet not direct enough. Besides, he can find no trace of the sorcery that slew him. The Second Magic – Kaleidoscope – is not responsible for this.

Which makes it all the more imperative that he discover what is.

The edges of the cuts are too fine. No mere weapon could trace through his creations' flesh so perfectly. And yet it isn't simply the meat that has been damaged. The former owner of this body was killed at a deeper level.

A conceptual level.

He pours over her memories again, skipping past centuries of chained slumber – he has slept enough – and anything else he deems irrelevant. Most of her existence fails the cut. Finally, he finds them: the last recollections of an empty life. Walking. Searching. Being followed.

There. He scrutinizes her last few seconds, playing them over and over. 

Elevator. Hallway. Room.

A knock on the door.

She had not had the time to finish speaking, but she had seen the one who killed her. Seen and dismissed, because that person could not have harmed her.

Not when that person was...

Human.

A _human_ did this. A human with a fruit knife. A human whose wide dark eyes and joyous smile were the last thing Arcueid Brunestud ever saw. 

Confusion. Incredulity. Elation.

_I want to know more._

It happens in an instant, as though time itself has glitched. The body that was in pieces becomes whole. The corpse that was lifeless is restored. He rises slowly, getting a feel for how his new body moves, and surveys the room in which he finds himself.

Small. Fully-furnished. Already paid for. It will do. 

His clothing, however...

In a single movement, he tears the purple skirt free and discards it. The sweater goes next, then the tights, then the shoes. Ruined, none of them worth repairing. Replacements are easy enough to find, though all of them are in the same style. He has been awake for less than a day, but he can already see he will require a new wardrobe. His vessel's tastes are not his own.

And isn't it miraculous, that he can comprehend enough of her remains to understand the concept of 'taste?'

White sweater. Ruffled purple skirt. Black leggings. Tan boots. Also not to his taste, but they will cover him until he can find something that suits him better. He runs one clawed hand through cropped hair, considering, then lowers it. His vessel's shame is not his own, either, but he has no particular desire to grow it back out.

Finished, he looks over his shoulder, thinks of what he wants to see, and twists. His Marble Phantasm responds instantly. The blood peels itself from the floor, the walls, the scraps of clothing, and coalesces into a small pool. Even the stains have been collected.

How... useful.

One tiny shampoo bottle is not enough to contain his new sample. Fortunately, he has more than one to choose from. 

It would be unwise to make his presence known. However, if Kischur permitted his resurrection, he must doubt that anyone who remembers is looking for him. His existence must have passed from memory, dismissed as surely as he has dismissed Arcueid.

So be it. 

He has learned from his past mistakes. This room will suffice for his cover, but he has plans to set into motion and equipment to forge. Schematics and blueprints are already beginning to circulate in his new brain, and he glories in being able to think and create without struggle. Gaia welcomes him. Alaya cannot find purchase in him. He breathes for the first time since Kischur took advantage of his ignorance and struck him down, and reaches for home. 

The girl whose flesh he wears was able to access his castle. She walked its corridors, slept upon its throne. Anyone who is watching will not find it out of the ordinary if she pays it a visit.

For a fraction of a second, Millennium Castle Brunestud yawns out of the ether before him. Before a human onlooker would be able to even register its appearance, both it and the entity known as Crimson Moon Brunestud vanish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that just happened. Crimson Moon route unlocked!


	2. death is a distant rumour to the young

Golden hair. A red floor. Limbs, everywhere.

...this 'sleep' thing isn't working out at all, is it. 

Shiki lies still, pillow hot under his cheek, trying and failing to capture some sense of calm. There must be some scrap of serenity in his head, but it's a master at evading his questing thoughts. Anemia is ridiculous. He can pass out unexpectedly everywhere except his own bed, in his own room, in his own house. He almost lost consciousness in class yesterday, for god's sake, and yet the only thing he's gotten out of tonight is a nightmare replaying in his head over and over. 

As if called, the image returns: a crimson floor on which the pieces of a corpse rest, like a dismembered doll.

“It's just a dream.” His voice sounds awful. Rough and coarse, like he's choked on something. “Why am I so bothered by it?”

Hisui comes in before he has to give himself an answer. “Shiki-sama, are you awake?”

He smiles weakly at her. “Yeah. I've been sleeping since yesterday afternoon, so I woke up early.” The more he speaks, the less grating his voice becomes. “So, what about you, Hisui? What's going on this early in the morning?”

She falls silent, and an air of awkwardness settles over them as he notices his uniform in her hands. 

“I see. You brought me a change of clothes.”

Should he thank her? Dismiss her? It's no good. She doesn't want to be familiar with him and he doesn't know how to be professional with her. This sort of relationship... it's beyond him.

It's not her fault, of course. He's the one who feels like the ground is sliding out from underneath him. Even without yesterday's nightmare of blood and mindless ecstasy, there's a subtle discomfort in being served so obediently by a girl his age. Do Hisui and Kohaku even go to school? He's not sure he should ask. They might not like the question and he might not like the answer.

The disorientation still chafes at him, but he clings to the beginnings of what could be a routine. Bathe. Get changed. Go downstairs. He works around his glasses, as per usual, and ignores the twenty minutes spent staring at the ceiling, the sickly feeling in his gut, the sore red flesh of his neck. He must have messed himself up during the anemia attack. That's all.

Downstairs isn't much better than the awkwardness in his room. Kohaku is there, at least. Like her sister, she's in full uniform already. It's nice to see her smile so early in the day, even if it is accompanied by a bow.

“Good morning, Shiki-san. You sure are early. And you look refreshed, too. Have you just had a bath?”

He blinks. “Yeah, I just took one. Can you tell?”

She giggles. “Your hair isn't dry, Shiki-san. You certainly look cuter like this.”

...is this teasing or a compliment? Either way, it's embarrassing. He's embarrassed.

“Please hold on for a minute,” Kohaku chirps. “I'm going to prepare some breakfast now.”

Breakfast? Break, fast.

Oh, she must mean... she's getting him something to eat.

A thick red colour swims behind his eyes, unprompted and nauseating. 

“Is a western-style breakfast like yesterday fine with you, Shiki-san?”

“Ah. I... don't really mind?” Words aren't coming out right. His tongue feels sprained, somehow. “I've been a light eater since I was little. I often skip meals, so... it's all right, Kohaku-san. I'll just go to school without eating today. Tell Akiha for me.” Making up his mind, he heads toward the door, throwing a quick wave over his shoulder. “Bye.”

A moment later, his arm is trapped and the smiling maid is glaring furiously at him. 

“What are you saying, Shiki-san?” she demands, jabbing her finger at him. “Have you looked in the mirror this morning?”

Shiki shrinks back from her intensity. It's not that he isn't aware of how bad he looks, but... how should he put this. After yesterday, it seemed fitting that he looked like death warmed over.

“I'll be fine,” he tries. “It's just that I don't have a lot of blood in me. I always look a bit worse than I should.”

“This won't do!” the redhead insists, holding onto his arm like a vice. “You won't grow without eating breakfast! If you don't have an appetite, I'll prepare you something easy to eat. So please, go to the dining room.”

She says 'please' and then physically drags him into the sitting room, where Akiha is waiting. Shiki really has no choice in this matter. Despite her cute smile, Kohaku is a dangerous person. 

He ends up seated, waiting for a breakfast he doesn't want and isn't sure he can eat, quailing under Akiha's stare. She looks more depressed than harsh today. In some ways, that's reassuring. In others...

Well, whichever way you take it, it's certainly awkward.

After a moment, she speaks. “Nii-san, about last night. Is it true you collapsed in the park?”

“Seems so.” He starts to shrug, then thinks better of it. “I don't really remember it myself, but that's what Kohaku and Hisui said, so I guess that's what happened.”

Akiha sits perfectly straight, shoulders back, head steady. Even when she's concerned, she looks dignified and icily proud.

“Oh, stop talking like it's someone else's problem, nii-san! You have a weak body, so if you ever feel bad, please contact the mansion. I'll send someone to pick you up right away.”

_She thinks I'm helpless._

Shiki can't argue with her. He knows as well as she does that he's got no leg to stand on – not after passing out on a park bench, of all places. Even so, something about the way she talks puts him off.

“...hey, listen. There's no need for that. I'm not a primary school kid.”

Except that she's right: he might as well be, since he can't even get home by himself. Doesn't matter that attacks like this barely ever happen, that he's had to develop his own routines for the aftermath, that he's been taking care of himself for the eight years they were apart. Two days after they've reunited, Tohno Akiha has declared that Tohno Shiki is her responsibility – or, in other words, that he's dependent on her.

“Look, just because I have chronic anemia doesn't make me weak,” he says. “Yesterday was just... you know... a terminal case of bad timing, that's all.”

Mistake. Akiha puffs herself like a dragon, working herself into a proper rage. “You've only just returned to the mansion! What would I do if you died...” As quickly as the rage appeared, it vanishes, leaving her despondent again. “You take things too easily, nii-san. Please take better care of yourself.”

It's like she doesn't know him at all. Which she doesn't. Because he never replied to her letters.

Meeting Akiha's flinty black eyes becomes harder all of a sudden.

“I'm already trying not to push myself, though. I don't do clubs and I follow the doctors' advice. You'd have to put me in an institution to upgrade my care.”

“I would love to do that,” she says unflinchingly.

...Akiha grew up into a terrifying person. The scariest part of that sentence is how easy it would be. She wouldn't even have to put him in an institution to lock him up. Plenty of old Japanese manors have cells underneath, where the unwanted could be shut away without shaming the family. Shiki can very easily imagine such a thing lurking under the mansion. He swallows convulsively, the action irritating his throat, and resolves to be a bit less bothersome for Akiha.

'This is a place with rules,' indeed.

That she seems worried about his well-being is small consolation for being subjected to the Akiha Inquisition. But, well... she is his sister. Shiki will take what he can get.

Changing the subject seems to defuse things a little, though he still gets schooled on her schedule and the correct terminology for Asagami Ladies' Academy dorms – er, boarding houses. At least she goes back to being prickly and sulky rather than truly angry. By the time Kohaku calls him into the dining room for breakfast, Akiha's pouting and Shiki can cautiously embrace the idea of food. He's still not hungry, but this talk has done something for his nerves.

Even so, the question remains, hanging in the air.

_Why am I so bothered by it?_

It's just a dream. A terrible dream. The most vivid dream he can remember.

A dream that won't leave him alone.

* * *

Height: 169 centimetres. 

Weight: 57 kilograms. 

Appearance: sickly pale skin that makes his dark uniform resemble a shroud. A heart-shaped face this side of girlish. Short-ish black hair that goes from fluffy to smooth at unpredictable intervals, presumably affected by humidity, the phases of moon, and how many fights Arihiko's gotten into that week. A huge red scar on his chest he goes out of his way to hide. Eyes a vague, murky shade of grey. Glasses.

Noteworthy conditions: anemia, brain damage, Mystic Eyes of Death Perception. And now recurring nightmares, too.

This is a portrait of Tohno Shiki, whose name is written with the characters for 'aspire, intention, hopes' and 'precious, value, honor.' The kanji in 'Shiki', 志貴, are used in Japanese words meaning things like 'sacred', 'priceless', and 'dying wish.' 'Time of death', 'consciousness', and 'fighting spirit' can also be pronounced 'Shiki.'

Nothing particular relevant there. It's just kind of interesting to think about how many Shikis there are in the world. Probably, nobody would miss one if he disappeared.

Geez, that nightmare really did a number on him, didn't it? Even the emotionless Hisui can tell something's wrong. Though she's incorrect when she says he's pushing himself. Pressing on as if nothing is bothering him is the normal thing to do. No sense in letting his weakness slow him down more than necessary.

He promises to be careful, at least. He was kind of hoping it might get a smile out of her, but she bows instead. Should've seen that one coming. Hisui hasn't smiled once since he set foot in this house.

_...time for school, I guess._

The street gets busier as he approaches the main gate. Students drift forward, in groups or alone. Most of them have smiles on their faces. And why wouldn't they? Class is shorter on Saturdays. If his night hadn't been so terrible, Shiki would probably be feeling cheerful as well.

It's only seven-thirty when he pauses at the crosswalk. The light is red, but he's already within sight of the building. Seems he'll be arriving early today. 

Red goes out, replaced by green. He takes a step forward, and –

Something glints in the morning sunlight.

Something golden.

At the fence. Outside the school.

there's someone. standing. beside. the fence.

a person who isn't a corpse. a person who isn't a person. a person who –

he can feel the earth lurch under his feet as its orbit realigns and knows he's standing on the satellite. the centre of the universe is here and watching him with narrow crimson eyes.

every nerve signal is disrupted, electrical impulses scrambled before they have a chance to escape his frozen brain. movement is beyond him. breathing is beyond him. thought is beyond him. all that remains is weight

and distance

and silence

and terrified awe

he is standing on the satellite watching as it approaches. a crimson sea. a golden dawn. a still white face peering down through layer upon layer of atmosphere history reality.

_you can see the moon rise from the earth. can you watch the earth rise from the moon?_

it's not his thought it can't be he can't think it must be something else some genetic memory passed down and buried so deep inside him he can't tell the difference some warning that came too late the ultimate approaches and gravity presses down on him from all sides grinding his bones to dust crushing the life from him and

and

his eyes 

begin 

to _burn_.

* * *

Tohno Shiki doesn't make it to class early. He doesn't make it to class at all.


	3. our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them

It's a cold night. Winter's chill wraps itself around his shoulders. Claws of ice sink deep into his spine. He steps forward, but it doesn't seem to carry him anywhere.

No. That's wrong. He's moving, it's just that his stride is smaller than expected. So small, he might as well be a child. All around him is an endless well of darkness, pitch black and absolute. It feels both pleasant and unpleasant on his skin. Pleasant, like cool shadows pressed against a wound; unpleasant, like knives digging in to carve out something vital. He keeps walking, stumbling forward like a sleepwalker. 

Moonlight shines down from overhead, bathing him in cruel and beautiful silver. It washes over him without sensation, illuminating nothing. He is still drowning in darkness. A net of branches sways overhead, blocking out even the moon.

The moonlight grows brighter. He squints, the beginnings of a headache pounding at his temples.

 _Where am I?_ he wonders. A moment later, the answer comes to him: _I'm home._

Yes. This place is home. He can't remember seeing or hearing about it before, but that's meaningless next to the familiarity thrumming in his bones. His body knows this path well. It leads him down a winding road, across tree roots and through brambles. There's times when he has to duck to avoid hitting his head on something that muscle memory insists should be higher, or crouch down to squeeze through a gap that should be larger, but he does so without complaint. 

This isn't a place for frustration. This is a place for death.

...why did he think that? Why did something like that come to mind? This forest is peaceful. Calming. A place where a child could run to escape his worries, his fears, his concerns for the future. It's a place where no future exists. Where time stands still. Where anything can be buried.

His feet slow to a stop. It takes him a moment to realize, since his steps have been so small, but he's halted completely. Something impossibly heavy presses against his back. His breathing starts to quicken. His shoulders begin to tremble. This burden is too big for him. If it pushed down, he would surely be crushed. But it isn't. It's pushing him forward. Soon, he's gasping helplessly, his bare toes scrabbling at the dirt. There's no purchase for them. 

Slowly and unerringly, he's being driven toward something terrible. Something he doesn't want to see.

 _'Please accept everything given to you,'_ he thinks wildly, and then wonders why. Did someone say that to him once? He can't remember. He can't remember anything.

Where is this place? What is he doing here?

There's no answer.

Ahead looms a clearing. Just the knowledge of its existence fills him with unreasoning dread. Seeing it... there's no way. He throws caution to the wind and fights, thrashing wildly in the grip of an unseen force.

So what if it's bigger than him? So what if it's stronger? None of that matters. If he can get his hands on it, it'll die as easily as any other target. Like Van Helsing slew Dracula. Like David slew Goliath. But even as he struggles, he knows it's too late. The veil of trees is already parting.

_It's cruel. It's so cruel._

His head hurts. If he listens, he can hear someone calling his name.

The clearing is a courtyard, neatly maintained. The forest vanishes, replaced by the faint outline of buildings and the chirping of cicadas. He's on the ground. He doesn't remember falling.

Somewhere nearby, a little girl is kneeling, her face red and blotchy. Tears run down her quivering chin, dropping to the ground beneath her. Beneath them. He wants to raise his hand. He wants to comfort her. He doesn't understand why he can't.

Why is she crying? This girl shouldn't be sobbing her eyes out. Not now, not ever. That's right – she was always a quiet, obedient child. The kind of kid who made other kids, no matter how sensitive, no matter how disciplined, look bad in comparison. She was nothing like Shiki. Shiki was a troublemaker, always on the move, always racing forward with a dozen harebrained schemes. A chronic cloud watcher who drifted off thinking about 'what ifs' and relied on someone else to keep his feet tied to the ground. A boy who lived as if he knew how little time he had.

The pain in his head shifts, sinking deeper.

...that girl is still crying. The cicadas are growing louder, their song drowning out all his aimless, meandering thoughts. He lies still, his heart dead in his chest, staring placidly through his lashes. The moonlight continues streaming down from above, illuminating nothing, concealing nothing. In a haze of agony, he can feel it sliding underneath his eyes.

But in that light, he notices that there is something at her feet. Something empty. Something cast-off. Something red.

_That's odd. It looks like... a cicada shell?_

“What are you doing here?”

For a long moment, he thinks those words belong to him. But they can't be his. His throat is paralyzed. And besides, they're a child's words, spoken in a child's piping voice, accompanied by a child's light footsteps. As he lies there, frozen, a pair of tiny bare feet come into view. They're pale and delicate, but encrusted with dark earth. A different brown substance is crusted under small toenails. The sight makes his stomach turn over. Or rather, it would if he could move.

“You shouldn't be here,” the child says. He sounds annoyed. Reproachful. “I didn't want you to dream this dream.”

So this is a dream. The knowledge should be comforting. It isn't. The familiar forest, the awful dread, the crying girl and the cicada shell – those things aren't going to vanish just because he's realized they aren't real. In some ways, unreality makes them worse.

If they were real, he could see them. Touch them. Process. Maybe, eventually, move on. Like this, he can do nothing. He just lies here, paralyzed.

 _I'm sorry,_ he thinks. _I can't help it. I didn't want to dream this, either._

A soft huff. “Stupid. If you don't like it, wake up. You won't remember anything, and neither will I.”

Wake up? Is it that simple? That whole premise rings false somehow. Especially when... it really feels like there's something he should remember.

Yes. For that girl, for Shiki, and for...

For...

“...You're stupid. Just think about yourself, and you can be happy.”

_Just think about myself, huh?_

If he could move, he would smile. That would be simple. Not considering anyone else's feelings. Not worrying about anyone else's pain. Existing in a haze of clarity, living only for his own desires, seeking only his own pleasure. Yes, that would surely be a simple life.

However, he can't picture that life at all. What selfish desires would he wrap himself in? What selfish pleasures would he seek? 

_No, first of all, who am I?_

For a moment, the child seems to flicker. In that instant, he can see right through those pale, dirt-encrusted feet. Then the moment is over, and the child dances backward in a haze of red fabric. 

A yukata? 

It's cute. Very cute. The nostalgia is almost overpowering. But the child is speaking again, and he can't help but listen.

“You're Tohno Shiki. You're alive. You're going to wake up soon.”

_I see. I'm Tohno Shiki. And I must be alive, if it hurts. The dead can't feel pain. That's what makes them enviable._

Something feels off, but he can't place it. The courtyard is beginning to fade as the pain in his eyes grows. It's all he can do to think one last question.

_...hey. Come to think of it, who are you?_

His vision has gone completely blank, but he can still perceive the faint impression of a smile. 

“Me? I'm not anyone anymore.”

* * *

Shiki regains awareness in bits and pieces, starting with the worst headache he remembers having and working down from there. His jaw aches. His throat is raw, inside and out. His shoulders are painfully stiff. His arms, his back, his legs – everything feels bruised. But nothing compares to the pain behind his eyes. His optical nerves are on fire, burning deep into his brain. There's an awful taste in his mouth. Thick and coppery, like old blood. 

A soft hiss rasps against his cracked lips. His throat presses against something as it moves. Something thick, and cool, with precious little give to it. He swallows, trying to get rid of that awful taste, and feels it again. There's something wrapped around his neck. He tries to move his arm and fails. Something heavy is keeping it pinned.

Wrists. Elbows. Shoulders. Chest. Hips. Knees. Ankles. All strapped down. All immobilized. There's something wrapped around his head, too, covering his aching eyes, and a hard surface beneath him. He's blinded, laying on some kind of table, and he can't move an inch.

“Akiha?” he murmurs.

No reply.

“Akiha, please.”

Nothing. He feels light-headed. His skull is pulsing in time with his racing heart.

“Please let me go.”

It hurts so much. His fingers twitch against the table, but it's no use. He can't trace the lines if he can't see them.

Wait. His glasses are supposed to be the only thing that can contain those lines, right? Since when was a simple blindfold enough to render him helpless?

His skull is beginning to throb in earnest now. His eyes should be watering. They must be – he can feel wetness seeping into the blindfold. It's embarrassing. Shiki likes to think of himself as someone who doesn't cry easily, even when terrible things happen. He didn't even cry last night, when –

When – 

Golden hair. A red floor. Limbs, everywhere.

He clamps his mouth shut as his guts begin to churn. The pain in his head suddenly seems small. Distant. He stops trying to struggle and goes limp in his restraints, face tilted toward the ceiling. 

_That's right. I am a murderer._

All things considered, Shiki has no right to be surprised. The power to kill anyone, anytime... something like that would corrupt anyone. The only odd thing is that it took him so long to succumb. He still can't untangle the train of thought that led him here, but he won't deny that he belongs in this position, in whatever institution Akiha chose to send him.

'As long as you remain the way you are now, your eyes will never bring forth any wrong.' 

Someone told him that, a long time ago. He respected that person deeply. He wanted to be like her. More than that, he wanted to be someone she could be proud of. Wow, has he failed.

His mouth curls in a mirthless grin. “Sorry, sensei, Akiha.”

If it was going to end up like this... he should've just put out his eyes when he was a little kid. Before he had the chance to kill someone.

...eh, wait a minute. If his eyes hurt so much... shouldn't he be able to feel them? He fights his way through the fog long enough to register the absence of sensation. He can't feel the rolling motion of eyeballs straining to see or the flutter of lashes trapped beneath fabric. He can't even feel the impulse to blink, not really. The only thing he can perceive clearly is the pressure of the blindfold on bandages layered on top of tender skin.

Tender skin which covers the sunken indents where his eyes should be.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, an odd calm settling over him. _It looks like I got my wish._

His eyes – the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception – are gone. He'll never see the lines again. He won't be able to kill anyone again. This is a good thing, right? But once he's started noticing things, he can't stop noticing them. Shiki has a lot of experience with hospital rooms: the soft hum of machinery, the smell of sickness and disinfectant, the vibrations and rustling that come from a building teeming with life. The room he's in now is eerily silent and smells of drying blood. It's neither comfortably warm nor uncomfortably cold. If pressed, he'd describe the temperature as lukewarm – the minimum level of heat required for human comfort. But that isn't what makes him go still on the table, heart fluttering in his chest. He can't hear anything. No humming, no rustling, no footsteps. Not even the distant vibration of cars outside. It's like the whole world has disappeared. Or maybe he's the one who vanished.

Either way, he's alone. Blind, restrained, and utterly isolated.

Run, his instincts tell him. He should be struggling, or at least shaking, but he isn't. It's not that he's calmed down or gone into shock. Shiki doesn't think he's ever been this tense in his life. His skin is stretched taught over coiled muscle, his bones buzzing with aborted movement. He feels like a bullet about to be fired. A knife about to be drawn. Harmless, invisible, until it becomes deadly.

His lip tears between his teeth. A few drops of fresh blood leak out into the air. A few metres away, something moves.

No. Not something. Someone.

“Akiha?” 

Even as he says it, he knows it's wrong. Akiha – both the child he remembers and the young lady he's just met – is a restrained and graceful person. She moves like a ballerina, her feet hardly scraping the ground. This person's steps have a similar lack of noise to them, but that's the only thing they have in common with his sister.

 _Heavy_ , he thinks. Then, because that makes no sense, he clarifies it: _a sense of weight._

There is something terrible and unfamiliar in those brisk steps. With each footfall, the room seems to shudder, walls falling away to expose the vacuum outside. There is no deliberation, no hesitation – just purpose and movement blended into one. Some awful radiance sinks into his skin. Its touch burns. A stellar body is walking toward him, soft flat shoes making the faintest rasp against what sounds like stone. 

He licks his bleeding lip. “Who are you?”

A long moment of silence, and the audible pressure of someone else's thoughts. Thoughts that are too large, too old, too much. Thoughts which alter the gravity to bring everything crowding in towards them. Even the silence holds its breath.

When the words come, they are few, spoken in the flat, dead tone of a machine parroting human speech. Or perhaps a deaf person who learned to talk through touching peoples' throats and imitating the vibrations. Syllables churn like gears in a factory, spaced with an impossible perfection. 

It's inhuman. It's terrifying. It's beautiful.

“I am the Crimson Moon.”


	4. six feet of dirt makes us all equal

It takes Shiki a second to find his tongue. When he does, he can't think of anything to say. “Ah... hello?”

That person – Crimson Moon – doesn't respond. He can feel the weight of their gaze on his skin, but they remain silent. It isn't that they aren't sure what to say. They're just waiting. On him, it seems like.

He runs his tongue over his wound again. “I – where am I?”

“No one will find you here.” The words churn out like meat on a slaughterhouse conveyor belt, notes from a music box. Shiki shivers in his restraints.

“I meant, what is this place?”

A long pause. He can all but feel someone else's thoughts washing over him, inexorable as the tide. It's like drowning. His breathing comes quicker and quicker, making the – collar – tighter around his neck. It sounds silly when he thinks about it, but the weight of cold metal on his throat is sickening. His arms, his legs, his body, that's fine. He can live with being strapped down. But the collar, which keeps him from turning his head too far to the side and won't let him look up or down – that's too much. If he could move, he would have started tearing at it the moment he woke up. As it is, he's just shaking, trying to slow his breathing down before he hyperventilates.

He doesn't want this. But he deserves it, doesn't he? Someone like him –

“This is my home,” Crimson Moon says, without emotion.

On the table, Shiki jolts as their voice drags him from his spiraling thoughts. “Your home?” That's – not what he expected. “Um, sorry for intruding, then.”

Wait, no. He's not intruding, he's been kidnapped. He shifts as much as the restraints will allow, trying to point his head in the direction of his... captor, he supposes. This day has really gone out of control.

“Why am I here, though? If it's someone's house – I'm sorry, but I probably shouldn't be here.” There's no way a private home will be equipped to take care of a patient like him. Unless... “Did – did Akiha give me to you?”

The silence that follows carries the feeling of a strong negative. Shiki gets the impression that Crimson Moon, whoever they are, has never met Tohno Akiha in their life. He relaxes a bit, despite himself. He doesn't know what he would've done if they'd said yes. Scream, maybe. Or cry. Or just fight his restraints until he hurt himself and had to be sedated. That must be why he doesn't remember how he got here – someone tranquilized him at the school gates. He must've been out since then. The idea is so invasive it makes his skin crawl, but at the same time, he's desperately glad he wasn't awake for the surgery. He looked up eye removal a few years ago in a fit of morbid curiosity. Now he knows entirely too much about it.

His eye sockets really hurt.

“Are you involved with the Tohno family?” he asks. Not because he thinks it's especially likely. He just wants to make sure that this isn't something his old man set up. Shiki tried to keep his eyes secret, but if his father found out – well, there aren't a lot of things Shiki would past Tohno Makihisa. Ordering his estranged son's kidnap and mutilation isn't one of them.

“I am not involved with anything.”

Maybe it's the headache or the panic waiting to set in, but Shiki feels like he can hear the reasoning behind that statement: _no organization would be foolish enough to seek me out._

It could be a lie, but somehow, he can't bring himself to believe that. This person doesn't seem like the type to tell falsehoods. The presence pressing down on him from all sides – it's overwhelming, but not malicious. Endless. Suffocating. But not wicked.

That knowledge only leaves Shiki more confused.

“Sorry if I offended you,” he says at last. His lip is still bleeding. When he swallows, he tastes iron.

The reply is brisk, mechanical. Absolute. “I do not take offense.”

“Then why... am I here?”

A long pause. Long enough that he begins to wonder if Crimson Moon is still listening. He doesn't doubt for a second that they're still in the room with him, but there's no way of knowing if he's going to get a reply. Honestly, he's surprised they've been so cooperative. It's not like he has any leverage here. Not without his eyes. Not without what little influence the Tohno name gives him. Not without –

His head hurts. Pain builds behind his eyes, seeping in through the sockets and spreading out inside his skull. His whole body jolts in one continuous flinch. Fingers scrabble uselessly at a smooth surface. It takes Shiki a moment to realize they belong to him.

Crimson Moon is speaking. He isn't sure when they started to talk, but he can't stop listening. His brain is nothing but cobweb. Their voice is a knife, slicing through silk and grey matter alike. 

“Arcueid Brunestud was born of my blood. Though we never met, she was my child.”

_Your... child?_

“A-Arcu...” Shiki tries to untangle the foreign syllables, but his tongue won't cooperate. He shakes his head as best he can. “I don't know who that is.”

The moment that sentence slips past his lips, he knows it was a mistake. Too late now. Always too late. The full weight of Crimson Moon's attention pins him to the table like a butterfly to a cork board. Small bursts of pain inform him that he must be struggling for the straps to dig so deep into his skin, but he can't do anything with that information. 

He can't think. He can't breathe. His heart stutters in his chest.

“Carve that name into your soul.” The words are spoken without emotion or inflection, yet they're the most terrifying thing he's ever heard. “It is a disgrace to forget those you have killed.”

Those he's... killed...

Then that – 

That means – 

Golden hair. Red eyes. White clothes. A girl who symbolized only herself. 

_I really did kill her, didn't I?_

His head hurts. If he still had eyes, his vision would be blurred, the world shimmering and swaying like a mirage. But he doesn't, and the world is growing agonizingly sharp. Each breath is a stab to the lungs. Each racing heartbeat is a kick to the ricks. The straps are immovable, universal constants, binding him with all the weight of his sins as he chokes on gravel instead of air. 

He can't see anything, but that girl... he can't see anything but that girl. 

Her hair, short and fluffy. Her eyes, wide and innocent. Her face, open and expressive. Her mouth, her soft lips, her white teeth. Her arms – her waist – her legs – every piece of her is familiar. Weight, muscle mass, the tension in her bones, everything that flew through his head in the moment he took her apart.

There wasn't any reason for him to do it. He just... he just wanted to.

Even though Shiki hates the colour taste smell of blood.

He just.

Wanted.

To kill that girl.

There was no reason. It has to be a mistake. 

There was no reason. It can't have been a mistake. He can still remember it. The euphoria of taking her apart.

His mouth burns with the taste of bile, but he has no leverage, so he can only choke it back down. Sandpaper breaths rub his throat raw. His limbs have gone still and heavy at his sides. The struggling must have died down, he thinks. Even so, his body hasn't settled. Little involuntary twitches keep jolting him into motion. The last fading nerve signals of a dead thing.

Something like laughter forces its way up his closed-off throat, over his tongue and past his teeth.

“If I... really am that sort of dangerous person, then I...”

_I should've put these eyes out a long, long time ago._

* * *

The panic died down eventually, leaving Shiki limp and panting on the table. If he'd looked awful this morning, he must be a real fright now. Hisui might actually show an expression if she saw him like this. Maybe she'd even squeak. That would be cute.

Grief hit his numb heart like a bullet train. He wasn't going to be seeing Hisui's blank face again, was he? Or Kohaku and her warm smile. Akiha, his little sister, who he had just started to reconnect with. Arihiko, the only person stupid and stubborn enough to befriend him. Yumizuka, who'd just started getting to know. Ciel-senpai. Mom, dad, Miyako. All gone because he hadn't been able to control himself. Because he'd forgotten how heavy a life could be.

Even so, there's a part of which feels offended about this. As if he had some leg to stand on when it came to destroying peoples' normal lives. Being kidnapped and mutilated may be an inconvenience to him, but it can't compare at all to learning your daughter has been murdered, right? It's normal to care about your children. To be furious and vengeful when they're hurt. Shiki experienced something like that from the Arimas when they caught him being bullied and ignored at school, and a lesser version when he overtaxed himself. He never deserved it, but their worry did make him feel warm.

He's never going to feel cared for like that again, is he? Murderers don't deserve family.

Shiki tipped his head back as far as he could and sighed quietly. Seems like he's made a mess of himself in front of a stranger – one who's done him a favour, no less. How pathetic.

'“...okay, I've calmed down,” he says, the words rasping over his sore throat. “If you've got something to say, I'll listen. Complaints, grudges, whatever. Talk all you want.” 

The room remains quiet. Silence, unbroken by anything outside its walls. The only noises are the ones that come from him. There's no audible sign of another's presence. And yet, Shiki's certain that he isn't alone. He can still feel those eyes on his skin.

He clears his throat, feeling a little put-upon. Why does he have to be the one who breaks this silence? Revenge is supposed to be something you do, not something your target actively invites onto himself. “Ah, Crimson Moon? You're still there, aren't you?”

More silence. Finally, just when things are becoming truly awkward, his captor asks a question. “How many of you are there?”

The remnants of Shiki's eyelids flutter against the bandages. “...what?”

“How many?” Crimson Moon repeats, each syllable a perfect replica of their previous statement. It's like listening to a tape recording.

“It was... just me,” Shiki admits. “It might sound unlikely, but I was acting alone. It's not like I'd listen if someone came up me and told me to kill a person. I'm – I'm not sure why I did it, but I didn't kill... Arcueid... for anyone but myself.”

“Intriguing, but irrelevant. How many like you are there?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

Something moves above him. An arm? No, smaller. Crimson Moon just raised their index finger. “First – Tohno Shiki, second year student. Unparalleled offensive capability limited by poor health.” A second finger joins the first. “Second – Ciel, third year student. High physical ability and physical vitality limited by low offensive capability. How many more?”

Shiki really wishes he could squint properly. Clearly his confusion isn't coming across. “I really have no idea what you're talking about. What does Ciel-senpai have to do with anything?”

The air in the room is growing thicker. Heavier. Crimson Moon is losing their patience. Or maybe they're just focusing their full attention on him. Either way, he ends up trembling beneath the weight of their regard.

“Church operatives in this area. How many?”

He gasps for breath. “I – I don't know! I'm not even Christian!”

The weight increases until he can't move his chest at all. His lungs are paralyzed. Air hovers tantalizingly out of reach. Suffocation is one of the worst ways to do, but he doesn't have to be afraid of that. In a few more seconds, he'll be crushed to death. 

The tension breaks. Shiki sucks in air as quickly as he can and ends up choking on it. Helpless coughs fill the room. Each noise bounces back with information, but it's not useful. He doesn't need to know how far away the ceiling is (6 metres), what materials the walls are probably made from (stone?), or how easy it would be to break through the floor (almost impossible). He just needs to breathe. Once that's under control, he starts actually noticing things again. Mostly, what he notices is pain. At some point, he must've started fighting the straps again. His wrists feel especially raw, but his fingers are screaming. A mass of pain sits where his nails should be. When he moves them experimentally, they feel wet. 

Cracked. No, shattered. What was he doing? Scratching at the table until his nails ground away?

It doesn't matter. Crimson Moon is moving. Shiki cranes his neck backward, straining to keep track of his captor. Even with his eyes gone, every instinct he has demands he keep his head pointed at the threat. At his sides, his hands curl into fists.

“No deliberate falsehood,” that mechanical voice mutters. It's close. Too close. Shiki flinches away. “Involuntary? Uncertain. Your brain is a mess, Tohno Shiki.”

Shiki frowns blindly upward. “I didn't need you to tell me that.”

A light touch on his forehead makes every nerve in his body sing. He jolts in his restraints, then goes utterly limp. Pliant. Faintly, he can feel something running through him, pouring over his veins, his cells, every atom that makes up 'Tohno Shiki.' He should be afraid, he thinks, but the fear has stopped coming. In its place wells up an odd serenity.

Is he dead? He might be. This tranquil acceptance is probably the way a corpse feels before an autopsy.

“Self-awareness is a virtue,” Crimson Moon says. “As is compliance. Though it seems you have a limited store of that.”

_Sorry._ The word sinks deep into his consciousness. _I'm trying._

“You are trying to do many things, most of them contradictory. As I said, your brain is a mess. No matter. The influence of those transplanted eyes should fade soon.” Another gentle touch. A finger, skimming the flesh of his cheek. If he could move, he would probably relax into it. “Prolonged personality fragmentation. Complex. Difficult. Not impossible. Whoever sent you after her has grossly underestimated me.”

Something about that doesn't sound right. But even so, there's nothing Shiki can do about it. The world is already beginning to fade away.

_Story of my life,_ he thinks, and is gone.


End file.
